


That Undiscovered Country

by Brigdh



Category: Victor Frankenstein (2015)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 12:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5456180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigdh/pseuds/Brigdh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Victor and Igor visit a gay club at Finnegan's request, their relationship takes a different turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Undiscovered Country

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idareu2bme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idareu2bme/gifts).



“Put on your best clothes,” Victor commands as he strides through the door of their rooms. “We’re going out. Finnegan wants to meet so that we can _talk_ about our progress. As though he’ll be able to comprehend our ideas.” He scoffs loudly, then unwinds his scarf from his face and throws it aside, following it with his top hat, then picks up a book that had fallen onto the sofa, flips through it briefly, and tosses it not gently enough after his outerwear, before he finally, actually, looks at Igor. 

Igor looks back at him. Igor is wearing an old shirt, its tattered hems rolled to above his elbows, and he is buried to the wrists in a heart – an elephant’s; he’s had some thoughts about size and placement as regards their next project. He looks down at himself to see what Victor is staring at and realizes that he’s covered in spatters of dry, brown blood.

Victor waves a hand in a circular gesture that seems to encompass all of Igor. “But wash first.”

* * *

It turns out that Finnegan wants to meet at his private club. “Ganymede’s”, Victor had said it was called, drawing out the word with a leer and a raised eyebrow as though it should mean something important to Igor. But though Igor knows a great deal about medicine and anatomy, he has not had the Classical education of these wealthy students. He has barely even had contact with society. Whatever Ganymede’s implies, it is lost on him.

He could ask Victor, of course. But he has to ask Victor so many things, from how to get around London to how to tie a cravat. He doesn’t want Victor to think he’s completely incompetent, even if he sometimes – often – feels that might be the truth.

Ganymede’s is smaller than the clubs Victor has taken him to before. When they descend from the hired carriage, for a moment Igor is certain that the driver has brought them to the wrong address. The building before them seems to be nothing more than a townhouse. There is no sign to draw attention to it, no grand staircase, no bustling crowd of footmen and beggars and flower-sellers waiting on those within. Even the windows seem secretive and private, their curtains drawn tight to block any light from within. 

But despite Igor’s misgivings, Victor sweeps up to the door and knocks sharply with the head of his cane. Igor follows him more slowly. When he’s closer, he notices a small golden plaque to the right of the door. It’s no bigger than a playing card, but sure enough, the delicate script reads _Ganymede’s_. Apparently this is the right place after all.

The door opens, but a man – a butler? a bouncer? – blocks their way forward. This is certainly the strangest place Victor has ever brought him.

The man sweeps Victor from head to foot with a scathing look, then turns his gaze onto Igor. Igor feels himself wither under the scrutiny, and tries to hunch his shoulders, but the brace beneath his clothes prevents him. He settles for biting his lip which, oddly, makes the man smile. 

“Pretty thing,” the man murmurs to himself. “Pretty thing indeed.”

Victor loudly clears his throat, and reaches into his overcoat’s pocket to produce a card, which he thrusts rudely into the man’s face. “We are here to meet Finnegan,” he announces, his voice ringing out into the empty street behind them. 

The man grimaces and takes the card. He studies it thoroughly, but apparently he can find nothing to critique because he stands aside to allow them entrance. Within, the club is lit not with modern electric lighting, nor even gas, but with candles and oil lamps. They give a dim, flickering light, and as the three men proceed down the front hallway, their shadows dance on the walls like frenzied demons.

Igor stares about himself. Since meeting Victor, he has been taken to many strange places, and seen things that he never imagined could exist. But Ganymede’s makes him uncomfortable. There is something underhanded about this place, something furtive, that he doesn’t like.

The man brings them to a large room, though it is still smaller than that of the other clubs Igor has visited. A bar stretches across one wall, and much of the rest of the room is filled with small tables, leaving only enough space for an extremely minuscule dance floor. However, it seems that won’t be a problem, because the vast majority of people in this room are men; only a handful of bright dresses interrupt the uniformity of dark suits. Igor thinks that this is odd. Are not clubs where one goes to be social, and to have the rare opportunity to mingle with women? Perhaps even to find love? Certainly that seemed to be the purpose of Victor’s own club.

Igor glances at Victor to gauge his reaction, but his friend seems unsurprised. He spots Finnegan sitting in a booth near the back of the room, and strides confidently toward him. Igor follows, content to relinquish the lead to Victor. This is not one of the social situations he has learnt to master since leaving the circus.

Victor takes the seat across from Finnegan, spreading himself out by hooking an elbow over the back of the seat and spreading his knees. He takes up the majority of that side of the table by himself. He is always so confident, so expressive of his desires. Igor admires that trait, but does not share it himself. He takes the seat at the end of the table, tucking his legs under and folding his hands in his lap. He knows that he is here merely as Victor’s assistant, though Victor insists they are equal partners.

Finnegan seems to share Igor’s opinion of the hierarchy between the three of them. He spares only a brief glance for Igor before dismissing him from his mind, leaning forward to focus on Victor. “I am glad you came,” he says.

“You summoned us, did you not?” Victor looks over his shoulder and raises a finger for the barkeep. “Igor and I appreciate your willingness to support our research. We would hardly ignore a request for a meeting from you.”

Finnegan reaches out to cover Victor’s hand with his own, then nods firmly at the barkeep. “Let me,” he says. Victor seems as though he would like to protest, but he acquiesces with a shrug. “Absinthe? It is a speciality of the house.”

“If you like. It’s your money, after all.” Victor chuckles, but Igor hears the note of forced gaiety in it. If Finnegan does also, he chooses not to acknowledge it.

Finnegan leans back. His hand seems to only slowly release Victor’s, his fingers trailing over the skin before falling away. The sight sends a strange shiver down Igor’s spine. 

“Shall we get down to business?” Victor asks.

“There’s no hurry.” A waiter arrives with their drinks, and all three are silent as the green liquor is set down on the table, along with the accoutrements of sugar and spoons and glasses. When they are once again alone, Finnegan continues. “You had no hesitation about coming here?”

Victor shrugs. “It’s unimportant to me.”

“I thought perhaps you might find it to be... of interest.” Finnegan glances meaningfully between Victor and Igor, but whatever it is that he’s suggesting, Igor doesn’t understand.

But Victor clearly does. He straightens up in his seat, drawing his limbs together like a general gathering his troops. “It’s not like that,” he says. His voice has lost its false friendliness and become rough. His temper can be so short; Igor hopes that whatever is happening, Victor won’t lose them their financial support at this stage of the game.

But Finnegan takes no offense. “Is that so? My mistake, then. I do apologize.” He makes a glass of absinthe for himself, then turns to Igor. “Shall I pour for you?”

Igor nods. He’s not sure he remembers all the steps well enough to do it himself, despite having just watched Finnegan. This time he pays closer attention.

Finnegan pours the absinthe itself into the bottom of Igor’s glass. Despite the dim light, Igor can make out its vivid green color, like jade. Finnegan carefully balances a spoon atop the glass, then sets a sugar cube on that. He brings his hand to his mouth and licks his fingertips clean, his tongue catching minuscule grains of the sugar, and then smiles at Igor. Uncomfortable, Igor looks away toward Victor. He is frowning and has crossed his arms.

Ice clinks, and Igor glances back. Finnegan has picked up the bottle of cold water, and pours a thin, slow stream over the sugar. It sizzles as it dissolves, dripping like a thick syrup to the absinthe below, which grows cloudy, until it looks like nothing so much as milk.

Finnegan slides the glass to Igor. “Drink,” he says invitingly.

Igor cautiously picks it up. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Finnegan has not offered to make Victor a drink. Something is happening here. But surely if it were dangerous, Victor would stop him. Instead he glares at Finnegan, who ignores him, sipping his own absinthe while holding eye contact with Igor.

Igor takes a tiny swallow. The alcohol burns down his throat and he coughs. But the taste is not unpleasant; it reminds him of the licorice they sold at the circus. He is unused to alcohol, and waits to see how it will effect him. But he feels nothing, at least not yet.

“Do you like it?” Finnegan asks.

Igor takes another drink. This time he is prepared for the strength of the drink, and all he notices is the sweetness of it, the green herbal taste. “I do,” he says, a little surprised by his own appreciation. 

Normally Finnegan ignores Igor, choosing to confine his discussion to Victor. But tonight, everything normal has been reversed. It is Igor that Finnegan stares at, Igor he directs his comments toward, Igor he laughs with, while Victor slouches back in his seat, excluded from the bubble of social warmth that Finnegan can cast around his chosen companion. It confuses Igor but, like the absinthe, is not entirely unwelcome. A mellow ease fills his body, and he escapes his usual awkwardness to exchange small talk as though he were any gentleman. Upper class society no longer seems like some new country in which he is a foreigner; he feels he has practiced for this all of his life. 

Finnegan has slowly been moving closer to Igor as they speak, until he is perched on the edge of his seat, his knee brushing against Igor’s thigh. He sets his hand on Igor’s wrist – not an uncommon gesture, certainly; Victor has touched Igor in such a way at least a hundred times – but he doesn’t pull back. His fingers curl around Igor’s wrist in a loose grip, but when Igor tries to move away, they tighten, holding him in place.

Igor stares at him, too startled to compose an appropriate response, and Finnegan still smiles and smiles. _Like a snake_ , Igor thinks, though it’s a ridiculous comparison. Maria the snake charmer had danced with a snake longer than Finnegan is tall, and Igor never once saw it smile.

Its eyes, though, were as cold as Finnegan’s.

Apparently satisfied that Igor will remain in place, Finnegan relaxes his grip once more. He shoves back the cuff of Igor’s shirt to expose the underside of his wrist and proprietorially strokes the skin there. Cold creeps across Igor’s skin. He is like the mice that Maria fed to her snake: frozen in the face of utter doom.

“Unhand him, sir!” Victor leans forward, his hands planted wide on the table, his brows drawn down over his eyes.

Finnegan glances at him cooly, calmly, as though Victor had not just silenced the hushed murmurs of the club with his shout. “Why? You said that he is not yours, so surely you can have no objection to my approach? Besides, look at him: he likes it.”

Igor wants to protest that he does _not_ like this, but his throat seems to have closed and the words will not come. Whatever pleasure he felt in Finnegan’s attention has soured, turned in his belly from warmth to sickness. He tears his gaze from Finnegan and his snake-charm allure, and looks wretchedly at Victor.

Who lunges across the table to forcibly remove Finnegan’s hand from Igor’s wrist. “You have mistaken the situation, sir,” he says, his voice icy in contrast to his violent movements. He replaces Finnegan’s hand with his own. “Igor is, as you put it, _mine_.”

This is not the rescue Igor expected. Victor’s grip is rougher than Finnegan’s; his fingers dig into Igor’s wrist with almost bruising force, each fingertip denting the skin beneath it. His palm is sweaty where it presses against the back of Igor’s hand. His touch is hot, entirely unlike Finnegan’s cool smoothness. It is not a seduction, but a claiming: a declaration of ownership.

Igor finds that he doesn’t mind. Did not Victor give him the clothes he wears, the name he uses, all of the life that he now leads? He _is_ Victor’s creature. He has known it since the night he left the circus, and feels no shame at it. 

But it is oddly thrilling to hear Victor name him so. Igor likes how Finnegan pulls away, his hands held up in surrender. Even in defeat he is unruffled, still somehow confident of his superiority, and Igor is glad to be safely under Victor’s protection. As long as they are together, Finnegan can pose no true threat.

“Won’t you go and fetch us a drink, Igor _dear_?” Victor asks. “I find that the absinthe is not to my taste.”

“But the waiter – ”

Victor cuts him off. “I would rather that you went, darling. Finnegan and I need to speak to one another.”

Victor has never used such endearments to him before, and Igor would like to ask why he does so now, but even he can see that this is not the moment. Victor and Finnegan glare at one another like boxers before the fight, though everything except their eyes maintain a surface politeness.

Igor slips his wrist from Victor’s loosening hold and leaves the table. As he makes his way across the room, a few of the men glance his way. He isn’t sure if it is because they have realized that whatever is happening between Victor and Finnegan isn’t a friendly chat, or if they can tell that Igor doesn’t belong here. He receives such looks often at the clubs Victor brings him to, but these seem different; hungry, almost, as though they have not just marked him, but would like to chase and bring him down. He speeds his steps to the bar.

He orders an ale of a brand that he has seen Victor drink often, then dawdles before returning to the table. A peek over his shoulder confirms that Victor is not done speaking to Finnegan; he can’t hear them, but the expressions of their faces and the tension in their shoulders show that they have much more to say.

Igor studies the people at the bar with him. One of the few women in Ganymede’s catches him looking and offers a coy smile. Igor dips his head shyly, and then starts in surprise. He is not sure what exactly it is that he notices – the breadth of shoulders, the slimness of hips, the curve of throat – but his knowledge of anatomy is extensive, and he is suddenly sure that the body beneath the woman’s dress is a man’s.

She laughs. “Oh, what a little pup,” she says, and there is no cruelty in her voice, just tired exasperation. “We don’t often seen boys as innocent as you at Ganymede’s.”

Igor has no idea how to respond to that, so he simply turns and heads back toward the table. More laughter follows him. 

A man in a woman’s dress – or a woman in a man’s body? Igor has never considered such a situation before. Though there had been the bearded woman at the circus, but that seems not at all the same thing. Igor pays closer attention on this trip across the room, and now he sees what he hadn’t before.

The woman by the bar is not the only one. It is hard to be sure, in the dim light of Ganymede’s, but everyone in a dress seems to have an Adam’s Apple. The men at the tables lean into one another like courting couples; they touch one another in the manner Finnegan had touched him. Though, so far as Igor can tell, none of the other men are as terrified as he had been.

Thoughts are revolving quickly in his mind, about anatomy and emotion and the relationship between the two; he thinks back to the secrecy of Ganymede’s outside appearance and draws some new conclusions.

By the time Igor reaches their table, he understands what the argument between Victor and Finnegan is about. “Here, dear,” he says as he hands the ale to VIctor. “I got you the one you like.” He sets his hand on Victor’s shoulder and leaves it there. 

Victor looks at him with eyes wide with shock; he nearly fumbles the glass, but recovers just before spilling the ale onto the table. “Yes. Well. Thank you.” He pats Igor’s hand, but it is an awkward move, too clearly a performance. Nothing like how he earlier grabbed his wrist, passion in that movement that Igor can’t forget. 

Finnegan notices too, because his eyebrows rise a fraction of an inch. It is suddenly important to Igor that Finnegan not realize the truth, so he distracts him by chattering of the first thing that comes to mind. “I didn’t know places such as this existed. I thought we were alone, Victor and I. It is... _freeing_ , to see your own desire reflected back at you.”

Finnegan smiles, but now the expression is small and tight-lipped. “Victor should do a better job of informing you of the potential of London life. He has been a negligent friend.”

“I am happy with how Victor treats me.” 

“Are you? You needn’t stay with him, you know. He and I have been discussing the concept of ownership, as it relates to men’s lives. He is not your maker. You might choose to leave him, if it pleased you.”

Igor bites back his instinctual response of _but he is_! Because as grateful as he is to Victor, Igor did exist before their meeting. He contains possibilities that perhaps even Victor is unaware of.

An answer to Finnegan’s question rises out of one such unexamined depth. Igor shifts his hand from Victor’s shoulder to his neck; his skin is warm to the touch, his dark hair soft and curling. For a moment Igor lets himself linger there, bewitched by the slight burn of stubble against the pad of his thumb, and then he leans in and kisses Victor Frankenstein.

To tell the truth, he has thought of this before. He has dreamed of kissing Victor, of touching the body beneath his clothes, of doing things with him that had previously been mere unformed desires. He hadn’t known such actions could exist in waking life.

Though his dreams weren’t _exactly_ like this. They hadn’t included Finnegan, for one thing, nor had they taken place in public. But Victor’s lips are as soft as he imagined, and when they part – in surprise? in horror? or, possibly, delight? – he tastes like ale and absinthe and it is too vivid to be a dream. Victor turns his head, and the kiss deepens. Igor forgets that it started as a show to convince Finnegan; now all he cares about is the slide of Victor’s tongue into his mouth, hot and thick, and the press of Victor’s arm around his back, drawing him closer. Igor’s free hand comes up to clutch at Victor’s shoulder, and he makes a sound into the kiss, which he should surely be embarrassed by, if only he didn’t want to do it again.

Finnegan clears his throat. The sound jerks Igor back to awareness, and he pulls away. He can’t go too far though, because Victor’s arm is still locked around him, holding him tightly in place. Igor feels his cheeks heating up, and knows he is blushing, though he hopes it’s too dark for the others to see. More than that, he feels his cock harden against his thigh, pressing against the fabric of his trousers. His lap is luckily hidden beneath the edge of the table, but Igor can’t help but think that everyone must know, everyone must see the evidence of his unreturned desire.

He licks his lips, and they taste like Victor. _Oh God_. Has he given himself away? For Victor, this is surely only a performance, a strategy he has taken up because he dislikes Finnegan. Igor can’t let it become too real.

After a moment, Victor’s arm loosens, and Igor retreats to his own seat. Finnegan is looking at them both with a mixture of amusement and irritation. The amusement wins. “I see that I have indeed been mistaken.” He lifts his absinthe in an ironic toast. “Best wishes to the happy lovebirds.”

Igor can’t find the words to respond. His cock aches, and what he wants is to press himself again against Victor, to kiss him until his body can find its release. He knows that will not happen. That was the only time they will kiss, and so instead he devotes himself to memorizing the way it felt. Victor’s grip had been possessive, his mouth hungry, his body solid with muscle. Igor closes his eyes.

And opens them again as Victor hauls him to his feet. “Well, this has been lovely,” he is saying, tossing money down onto the table. “So sorry that we didn’t have the chance to talk more, really I am, but it’s time that we were going. Next time we’ll get around to discussing our research, I’m looking forward to it already. Toodle-oo, now, and have a wonderful evening.”

Finnegan clearly would like to stop them, but Victor has hurried away from the table before he can gather his wits sufficiently to break into Victor’s incessant stream of chatter. Igor stumbles, almost running to keep up with Victor’s longer legs, but Victor doesn’t release his grip on the sleeve of Igor’s jacket until they’re out the front door and on the street.

 _He’s realized the truth_ , Igor thinks, flushed with shame, but Victor doesn’t say another word through the whole process of hailing a cab, the jouncing ride through London, and arriving back at their rooms. _Victor’s_ rooms, truly. Will he have to leave? Where will he go?

But the logistics of what he will do if Victor kicks him out pale in importance next to how his chest feels. Igor knows that the phrase _broken heart_ is a metaphor, mere poetic symbolism, and not a true physical condition. So why does it feel as though his chest is too tight, that his heart is not beating correctly, that his lungs cannot draw enough air? Why do tears prick at his eyes? 

He thinks of muscle and bone and arteries until he is sure that he can speak calmly. He doesn’t know what he can say, but he begins at the most obvious place. “I’m sorry – ”

Victor has been pacing the room, his back toward Igor, but at the sound of his voice he turns in an explosive whirlwind of movement and energy. “Stop! Not that!”

Igor falls silent. If Victor won’t even allow him to apologize, what hope can he have for anything more?

Victor stalks toward him, his legs eating up the space between them in a few long strides. He is so forceful – leaning forward, his shoulders hunched, his jaw clenched – that Igor braces himself for a blow. Instead Victor grabs him by the shoulders, forces him backward until he hits a pillar – Igor has a brief flash of memory of their first night, of Victor doing this to him before, of Victor’s mouth sucking at him – and then Victor kisses him.

The kiss is even rougher than the one at Ganymede’s. Victor kisses like he would devour him, and Igor knows now that he would like nothing more than to be devoured. He grapples with Victor, trying to hold him, to pull him closer, but Victor’s hands won’t move from his shoulders. He forces Igor’s mouth open and licks into his mouth. A lock of his hair falls into Igor’s eyes. Nothing matters except for the fact that Victor is close to him, touching him, kissing him.

Victor pulls back, leaving Igor gasping. “Do you want him? Finnegan?”

“What? No! No, of course not.”

“Good.” Victor kisses him again, this time biting at Igor’s swollen lips. The pinch of pain somehow transmutes to pleasure, and Igor feels his cock – soft now after the trip home and his fears – stirring again to attention. “Because you’re mine.”

“Yes,” Igor agrees whole-heatedly. He is kissing Victor back just as fiercely, and though he has never done this before, his body knows what it wants. Victor’s hot wet mouth, the burn from Victor’s stubble as he presses his face into the crook of Igor’s neck, Victor’s strong thigh sliding between Igor’s legs, inviting him to grind against it. Victor takes hold of Igor’s jacket and tears it from him, then follows it with waistcoat, cravat, and shirt, until Igor is left standing in only trousers and his back brace. He knows that he is not a particularly handsome man, but when he raises a hand to shield himself, Victor grabs him by the wrist and forces his arm back to his side.

“I want to look,” Victor says, then proceeds to do just that. His eyes slide up and down Igor’s body so intensely that Igor imagines he can feel the touch of that gaze. Victor brushes a thumb against the line of Igor’s hip where it protrudes from his trousers, then draws the touch upward, bumping over Igor’s ribs toward his nipple, standing hard and peaked. “I did this,” he says, his voice proud and lustful. “I made you.”

Igor nods. His throat is dry.

“So that means you’re mine.” He flicks his thumb against Igor’s nipple, making him gasp. Then he moves upward again until his fingers rest against Igor’s face. The touch is gentle, nothing like the previous ones. He stares at Igor, and his eyes are vulnerable, unsure. Igor has only seen him look that way once before – when Victor’s father was here – and once again his heart twists from emotion. “Do you want to be mine?” Victor whispers.

Igor wants to nod, but he is afraid that even such a small movement might dislodge Victor’s light touch. He swallows. “I do. You’ve given me... _everything_. I – ” He doesn’t want to say it, he’s sure that he shouldn’t say it, but the pressure in his throat won’t let him do anything else. “I love you.”

Victor growls – there’s no other word for it – and tosses him to the floor. He flings himself immediately down on top of Igor, knocking the wind out of him, but Igor doesn’t care because the weight of Victor’s body on his is more necessary than air. Victor fumbles with the close of Igor's trousers, then tugs them down over his hips and thighs.

It is more like a fight than like making love. They roll against one another, grappling at arms and back and waist, exchanging kisses that are bites. When Igor notices that Victor is no longer wearing a shirt, he leans up to Victor’s shoulder and sucks a bruise into the pale skin. He digs his fingers into Victor’s muscled back, feeling the flesh shift as Victor moves.

Victor thrusts against him, and the feel of his cock sliding against Igor’s own is overwhelming. His eyes close without him consciously deciding to shut them, and his head thumps back against the hard floor. He arches his back, wanting that feeling again, and then again. It is so good – it may be the best thing he has ever felt. For once, Igor’s mind is clear, free of his usual multiple layers of thought. There is only the need pulsing in his cock, and the incredible weight and warmth of Victor’s naked body against his.

Victor rolls them over, putting Igor on top. He opens his eyes to realize that they’re smearing the chalk drawings they worked on for so long, but he can’t make himself care. White chalk dust marks Victor’s jaw, and Igor leans down to lick it off. Victor tastes of sweat and skin and chalk, and it is the most wonderful thing Igor has ever had in his mouth.

Igor misses the feel of Victor over him, but when he tries to shift them back to their previous position, Victor catches him by the hips and holds him still. He sits up on his elbows, putting Igor into his lap. “I want to watch you,” he says. “Move for me.”

Igor is too self-conscious to do so at first. But then Victor drags his hips forward, bringing their cocks together, and it feels too good to hold back. Igor rocks, each thrust rewarding him with greater and greater pleasure, and any worry about what he looks like is erased from his mind. Victor strokes his chest, then curls his hand around the back of Igor’s neck and pulls him into another kiss. They feel connected everywhere, from their mouths down to where Igor’s feet are tucked beneath Victor’s calves. But most important is their center, where their cocks slide together, each little bit of friction sparking pleasure that shoots down Igor’s nerves. It’s almost enough to bring him to the peak that he can feel hovering just out of reach – almost, but not quite. Then Victor brings his hand to their cocks and takes hold of them with a single grip. Igor moans, bites his lip in an effort to silence himself, and then moans again.

“Yes,” Victor says, his words little more than pants and grunts. “Again. I like to hear you – I like to see you – I made you do that. My creation.”

He strokes Igor’s cock, pressing it against his own, and Igor comes hard, spilling himself over Victor’s hand. If he could come again so soon, he would from that sight: his own white spend covering Victor’s fingers. Victor must feel the same, because with another grunt he too climaxes.

Igor melts against him, his forehead landing on Victor’s shoulder and his arms flopping down by his waist. A wave of blissful tiredness fills him, replacing the frenzied desire of a moment ago. _I could fall asleep here_ , he thinks, and doesn’t even have the energy to consider how strange that is. 

Victor’s hands come up his sides, adjusting him to a slightly more comfortable position. Tentatively, they creep higher, until they've reached Igor’s hair. They settle for a moment, and then, cautiously, thread themselves between the strands, stroking softly. The motion sends pleasant prickles over his scalp, and Igor sighs, the last bit of tension in his body seeping out. He knows his bones must still be there within him, but at the moment he doesn’t feel them; he thinks he might end up as a living puddle. Is that possible? At another time he might have begun to work out the necessary ramifications, but not now.

“Igor,” Victor says, his voice rough, his fingers still moving in Igor’s hair.

Igor can’t manage much more than a sleepy, “Mmm?”

“I feel that you should know – that is, please allow me to tell you – I, well, the fact is that I share in certain feelings you expressed earlier this evening.”

It takes a moment for Igor to understand. When he does, he hides the wide smile that conquers his mouth by tucking his face against the side of Victor’s neck. “I – I’m glad to hear it.”

“Yes.” Victor clears his throat. “Also, I’ve had an idea our current project. What if we added an extra – ”

Igor tries to put his fingertips over Victor’s mouth, but ends up flopping his whole hand across his face. It still achieves the desired result: Victor, for once, shuts up. “Shhh,” Igor says. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

And, no less a remarkable discovery than everything else that has happened tonight, Victor obeys.


End file.
